


The Unexpected Deduction

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV John Watson, Sherlock deduces, SherlockBBC - Freeform, ahhh i love this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 14:27:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8165152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sherlock deduces a little bit too much about his and John's relationship.





	1. The Deduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock deduces a little bit too much about his and John's relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I started writing this in school and realized that I loved it so I spent an hour (and a half) finishing it and I hope you love it as much as I do. I just thought this would be such a funny way for Sherlock and John to find out that they actually do really love each other. Because I was thinking- if Sherlock is really so perceptive, than SURELY he can see how other people can see them together? And SURELY he can see that what they're seeing....looks pretty fucking gay? By the way, sorry about the shitty title, I'll change it if anyone has any better ideas.
> 
> Please comment! I love to read feedback.
> 
> -pp
> 
> *This has been edited from the original by the author*

Why?  Why did they always assume that him and Sherlock were together? It didn’t make any sense.  John was very  _ clearly  _ straight.  John frowned at the back of Sherlock’s head as the detective sat typing away at his laptop.  John thought he looked pretty masculine.  Maybe it was the fluffy jumpers that were putting everyone off...he scratched at his wool sweater absentmindedly, wondering if he should wash it.  Nah.  He didn’t like the feel of the jumper after it came out of the wash.  It took a few good wearings to make it nice and comfortable again.  Sometimes John smelled a bit like a whole rack of yarn at a craft store, but it was a comfortable smell.  He shook his head as if to clear it and stared into the fire, tracing the rim of his teacup with his finger.  Everything had just quieted down.  Mary was getting on well with the pregnancy, Sherlock had taken up his old quarters at Baker Street, and Mycroft had once more slithered into the shadows of Parliament.  Since Mary was going away to stay with a friend in the countryside (John and Mary had agreed that a breath of fresh air would do her some good) it had been decided that John would resume staying at Baker Street for a time.  

And it was so, so  _ nice _ .  John relished the feeling of his arm chair.  For a moment, he wondered if it would be worth the trouble to move it to his own home, but then he realized the flat would lose half its charm.  Sherlock might never forgive him.  The logs in the fireplace sparked and crackled and he slid down further in his chair, half dreaming, half sipping his tea.  Again, he returned to the question of why people  _ always thought they were a couple _ .  Even now, when John was married, and they went on cases outside of London, people still mistook them for being romantically involved.  Someone had actually gone up to them and given them a tirade about why gay marriage was wrong before being promptly reminded that a) Sherlock was remarkably good at delivering a solid right hook and b) John was not  _ actually gay thank you very much _ .  The incident was the subject of much laughter after the fact but in the moment John had been irritated out of his mind.  What was so hard to understand about the fact that Sherlock wasn’t so perfect and beautiful and brilliant and magnetic and charming that any old bloke that happened to be with him  _ must  _ want to fuck him.  He had flaws!  Oh so many,  _ many _ , MANY, flaws.  John cheered himself by drawing up a mental list.  With no malice, of course, but with great warmth and familiarity.  John recalled him actually  _ laughing  _ out loud on the scene of a double parricide before John had quickly cuffed him in the back of the head.  

Sherlock was messy, too.  When he ate, he had no regard for where or when or how, he just did.  John had once caught him eating soup with the top of someone’s skull.  Unsavory, rude, and always brutally honest, Sherlock was not just imperfect, he was the polar opposite of what some might consider generally  _ decent _ .  Quickly, John hurried to add in his mind that he didn’t care, that  _ of course _ he was still Sherlock’s dearest friend, and would be there for him whenever he was needed, but the overall point was that Sherlock was no gentleman hero.  At first, when Sherlock had told John that he didn’t care about the victims of murders, John had been aghast.  It was insulting to him. John had seen friends die, had cried with families destroyed by loss.  To John, every single case which had a life involved was real and vivid- he never lost sight of the fact that someone could possibly die.  And for Sherlock to just spit in the face of all of John’s experience in war and despair was not only indelicate but painful.  Everything changed when they had been at the pool.  There was real terror in Sherlock’s eyes when he saw John walk out from the changing stand.  They never talked about it, but John had seen it.  He was comforted by the fact that Sherlock only cared about him, and the people he loved.  If it had been Molly or Lestrade, John knew that Sherlock would have been greatly affected.  This little knowledge was a great comfort to John and he stopped doubting whether or not Sherlock actually cared about him.

All of this was obviously proved later on down the road in various multi layered ways, but John was too drowsy to reason it out.  Everything was so hot and close.  Again, his fingers crept up to his jumper and he tugged at the collar.  The fire was burning so hard he thought he might catch on fire.  John staggered out of his chair and towards the window on the right side of the sitting room behind Sherlock’s chair, letting the cool night air soothe him.  John cast a sly look at the computer screen.  Ah.  Sherlock was researching something again.  He leaned down so that their cheeks were almost touching and pointed at the headline of the article the consulting detective was reading.  “New case, Sherlock?” he said.  The head of curls nodded.  “Indeed.  It seems as though there is some small political drama that I might be able to shed some light on.  Mycroft asked me to consult before the situation becomes too much for him to handle, as it often does” he said languidly, turning to face John.  John furrowed his brow and scoffed.  “Sounds boring.”  Sherlock’s pale lips quirked into a half-smile and he once again went back to typing away at the laptop.  “Quite.”  Out of nowhere, John said “Why d’you think people always assume we’re together?”  The tips of his ears burned red.  He hadn’t meant to say it.  Or had he?  Hadn’t he been planning to ask since the very first time it happened at Angelo’s?

Sherlock looked at him with mild surprise.  “It is quite obvious.  Do tell me this is one of your jokes.”  John shook his head firmly and continued to look resolutely out the window.   _ Do not look at Sherlock.  Do. not.  look. at. him.   _ Sherlock took a deep breath like he did before his deductions, and said “Well, for starters, when people see us together, two people who don’t  _ look  _ like they would normally be... _ companions  _ it is sometimes hard for them to understand (as most simple things are).  They might then assume that some other force keeps us together, after ruling out some sort of occupation related obligation.  Also, we have known each other for quite a long time, and have become used to the presence of one another in almost all circumstances- not only have we lived together, we have fought together, suffered together, and, in one particularly disastrous instance, died together.  This sort of intimacy (a word I hesitate to use but is really the only fitting term) is easily recognizable to any person with eyes and so points them to what?  Either a long-standing friendship or some sort of romantic entanglement.  And since I am not the friends type (as I told you when we first became acquainted, the most popular response to my deductions is “piss off”) people usually assume that the only reason you put up with me and I put up with you is because-” and here Sherlock’s eyebrows knitted together and he hesitated before he finished his sentence, “-you are madly in love with me, and I desperately attached to you.” 

There was a long, long silence in 221B.  

Sirens and car horns wailed in the streets as the thick London night moved swiftly and silently over the rooftops, studded with stars and a pointed crescent moon.  Sherlock gazed straight ahead, eyes glazed over and mouth slightly parted.  John’s whole face was as red as the sun.  The two men were absolutely and positively shocked to their cores.  “Well, I’m off to bed Sherlock, I’ll see you in the morning” John coughed in a pathetic attempt at normality.  Sherlock nodded vacantly.  “Mm.  Yes.”  John walked to his bedroom, lay down, and clenched and unclenched his fists.  His heart raced within his chest. Sherlock was never wrong, he was _ never _ wrong...John wondered briefly if he  _ did  _ remember the stag night…

Downstairs, Sherlock still sat at the desk in disbelief.  

He would sit there with his mouth hanging stupidly open until morning.  


	2. The Stag Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to forget what happened on the mysterious stag night, and attempts to figure out his feelings (this doesn't go well.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favorite part about John and Sherlock's relationship has always been Mary. Weirdly enough, her arrival only seems to prompt Sherlock into understanding what he's lost. This chapter almost made me cry so I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it, and as always, leave comments! I love reading them.
> 
> -pp

John wiped the sleep out of eyes and stretched, sighing as he cracked his neck.  _ Shit.  _ _ Last night...with Sherlock...what had happened? Better asses the damage _ .  He got out of bed and headed downstairs, taking a deep breath before turning into the sitting room.  Sherlock sat at the desk, in the exact same position as John had left him. “Get much sleep?” John asked, shuffling into the kitchen and pulling a box of tea off of the shelf.  Absentmindedly, Sherlock shook his head.  The kettle was arranged, two mugs set out on the table.  With a start, John realized that the fruit bowl was filled with human teeth. “Sherlock, people are going to think you’re a bloody serial killer,” he laughed.  Not good, not good...no sarcastic response, not even a wryly raised eyebrow.  Steeling himself, John watched the tea boil and prepared what he was going to say.  _ About last night, Sherlock.  Your...deduction. That’s what they think. That’s what they see.  But clearly, that’s not what’s really going on _ . It sounded casual, easy.  John was pleased.  He walked over to Sherlock and opened his mouth, ready to deliver his well-rehearsed speech.  “S-so Sherlock, I, um, so, about um, the-” he stopped, aware that he was babbling.  What happened to the well-rehearsed speech?  Shit.  He put a hand to his forehead.  Shit. Bad. Definitely deteriorating to worse.  

At the same moment, they both began talking again- “John”- “Sherlock”.  John motioned to his friend and pulled out a chair.  His pulse leaped underneath his skin and he forced himself to maintain a serious grimace.  Sherlock put his slender fingers up to the bow of his lips and began speaking very rapidly, so rapidly that John almost couldn’t understand what he was saying.  “What I said last night about you and I meant it only in the context of the opinions of other people, whether or not it is actually true remains to be examined, you  _ know  _ that I am severely indebted to you John as I have articulated this both at your wedding and through saving your life on multiple occasions (no small feat as you do always seem to be getting captured) but I don’t think that I’ve ever felt what I described, although I don’t know, I can’t tell, and this, this  _ deduction  _ that I made, it could very well be wrong, I am sometimes very far from my mark (you yourself have reminded your readers on several occasions that I am, in fact, human) so-” John held up his hand.  It was all too much and far too quick for John to understand.  His head was a roaring blaze of thought, everything was darkness and confusion.  They sat in tense silence as Sherlock looked worriedly over his fingertips at some speck on the wall and John closed his eyes to think.

John loved Mary. Whenever he thought about her, a great swell of tenderness would rise within him and he  would thank God he had married her.  She had changed his life.  When he thought about his daughter, he would feel a fierce protectiveness that he never knew existed.  He loved her to pieces even though she was hardly the size of an apple.  In all of this love and happiness and warmth that John felt, where did Sherlock fit?  He  _ had  _ been the very first one that John could remember loving after Afghanistan.  The first day they had spent together, John had killed a man to save him.  It was all so fucking  _ complicated.   _ Had John considered that he might be gay, or bisexual, or  _ whatever  _ when people started talking about him and Sherlock?  Yes.  If everyone could see it, then couldn’t it actually be true?  Maybe.  Mrs. Hudson, The Woman, Angelo,  _ strangers.   _ The whole world seemed to be in agreement.  Truth hides in lies.  Questions whizzed around in his head, chasing each other in endless circles.  He would never leave Mary, but he could never leave Sherlock either.  He didn’t even know what to call Sherlock at this point- he wasn’t a friend or a brother, he was something  _ more _ .  But what?

A sigh of frustration escaped from his chest.  “Look, Sherlock,” he began steadily, “I don’t know what’s happening. Let’s just start with the obvious- we’re friends.  Yeah, and-” John faltered, “and we’re perhaps a bit more.  I don’t know what, exactly, but fuck labels and definitions.  Can we agree on these basic terms and have no more of this?”  Sherlock’s intelligent gaze pierced John’s blue eyes.  For the first time in his life, Sherlock didn’t crack a joke, make a remark about John’s mental ineptitude, or produce some brilliant piece of logical reasoning, he simply stared and stared and stared.  “Alright.  If you’re satisfied with that.”  A bitter voice in John’s head laughed darkly.  Satisfied?  Far from it.

After this little flare up, things became a bit stiff between the two.  John was so concerned with not seeming too needy or attached that he actually became distant.  Sherlock was still so utterly beside himself that he couldn’t have a normal conversation with John without slurring his words.  So they were both secretly relieved when Mary finally returned from the country, with a slight peach-colored tan in her cheeks, practically glowing with health and beauty.  John was once again reminded of how much he loved her, and he left Baker Street with little regret and a keen anxiety to forget everything that had happened.  They got back into the house and leapt into each other’s arms, eager to make up for the lost time.  After they were through, and John was reading quietly in bed, and Mary was in the bathroom, he thought about Sherlock’s deduction one last time.  

And, also for the last time, he thought about the stag night.

There had been a moment.  A swift, sudden, terrifying moment.  Sherlock and John didn’t speak of it, and John was pretty sure that Sherlock had absolutely no recollection of the event because when John had casually mentioned it the following morning as a joke, there had been no reaction.  John remembered them stumbling up the stairs and into the flat, Sherlock bustling around the kitchen preparing yet more drinks.  When he appeared again in the door from the kitchen to the sitting room, John recalled the way he had felt- awed.  Sherlock’s curls were disheveled from his bar fight, and his cheeks had a high and rosy blush from drinking so much alcohol.  He wore a look of dopey happiness and he swayed slightly to and fro like he was standing on the deck of a boat.  He was so beautiful when he looked stupid.  Striding across the room in his long coat, he had kneeled down next to John, handed him his drink, and kissed him.  For a full eight seconds.  Surprised and embarrassed, John had tried to recover but there was no use.  The damage had been done. As unpredictable as a lightning storm, Sherlock had giggled, wiped his mouth and sat down in his chair like nothing was wrong.  And they had gotten on drinking so heavily after that that neither of them thought about it at all. 

That is, until a few months after, when John had been thinking the night over, and the view of Sherlock’s gently closed eyes and long, sloping nose had suddenly flashed through his thoughts.  

John grinned and shook his head.  A silly night, a silly joke.  Nothing more.  Mary came out of the bathroom and smiled sweetly.  “I missed you,” she said breathily, kissing him on the nose.  He hugged her close, taking in the scent of her shampoo.  “I missed you too.”  For hours after they had gone to bed, he struggled to forget the kiss and the deduction.  It was not until 4 in the morning when he finally gave in to the tides of sleep.  

And even then, Sherlock’s voice echoed through his dreams.  John moaned semi-consciously, whispering his name into the darkness. “Sherlock, you prick.”

* * *

 

_ There is no reason that words should get in the way.  This word “love” means nothing, you know, we just think it does.  Everything they could say about it, everything they could call it, label it, categorize and code it, doesn’t matter because the feelings stay exactly the same.  That light and sweet excitement when they say your name, that heady, intoxicating rush when you accidentally brush fingers,  _ that  _ is what truly means something.  Oh, you might want the word.  Sometimes the words make people feel safe.  They want the boyfriend, they want the girlfriend, they want the partner.  There is safety in words because there is safety in certainty.  But reader, you don’t need it.  Who wants to be safe and certain when you could live recklessly and free?  When you could play fast and hard and dangerous with the borders of “love” (as they call it) and laugh the words back to whence they came?  Gay, straight, bi, girl, boy, the words, the WORDS, can’t you see that they aren’t important, that they were never important? If you have the essence of love, if you can feel that untameable beast that prowls in your heart and wears no true and honest name, then reader, worry not about the words. _


	3. The Disadvantage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock figures out that he loves John. But their bond defies all words, it doesn't make sense, some may call it "gay" but it really isn't as simple as that....so what does Sherlock do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the original work, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle repeatedly says that Sherlock is relatively "unfeeling." But here's the thing, right- it doesn't seem that way AT ALL. Sherlock is constantly joking with Watson, looking out for him, making sure that he doesn't feel left out of the mystery...I mean....like....anyway, I sometimes think that the Sherlock fandom (both original work and BBC show) don't truly understand how deeply Sherlock feels things. Because he doesn't allow himself to show emotion, or to process emotion like a normal person, when he does allow himself to feel things, it's just that much stronger. For him, an emotion is as real and as intoxicating as a drug. Something to be indulged in. This is my little attempt to capture that characteristic of him.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, and please leave a comment! 
> 
> -pp

For about three weeks, Sherlock and John steered well clear of each other, communicating only occasionally over text when something happened in the news.  It was painful, but it was also necessary.  Seeing one another face to face would cause too many problems, especially with the deduction that Sherlock had made.  Especially with Mary, and a baby on the way.  Even with Sherlock’s low social awareness (or lack thereof) John could tell the detective was making a pointed effort not to talk to him.  Mary noticed.  “Why haven’t you been seeing him, John?” she would ask, unvoiced worry written her brow.  She knew how much her husband needed Sherlock.  John would chuckle darkly and then say something about how Sherlock was “extremely busy these days” and “in incredibly high demand.”  There was also the small part about John not having quite figured out what to do.  After the night he had tried to forget, the effort of trying had broken something within him.  For the first time in his relationship with Sherlock, John began to seriously question himself.

He couldn’t get his face out of his head.  The severe cheekbones, deep cupid’s bow, his clear and intelligent eyes, as cool and soft as the shade of a weeping willow.  All of these little details were branded on John’s mind with a white-hot iron.  He missed Sherlock.  He missed the way he would sometimes favor John with one of his rare outbursts of laughter, or compliments on his improvement.  He missed the way Sherlock tousled his hair.  Hell, John once caught himself fantasizing about the way his chair smelled.  All of this, of course, seemed perfectly un-gay to John.  After all, it was absolutely normal to miss your best friend, especially after living with him for so many years, and sharing the things that they had shared. Wasn’t it?  WASN’T IT?

On the other hand, Sherlock was going through something of a minor existential crisis.

Above all, Sherlock valued cleverness and sensibility.  You could not be clever and sensible if there was emotional debris clogging up your thinking process. And this  _ definitely  _ counted as emotional debris.  On some level, Sherlock knew that he loved John.  This was a simple enough fact.  Sherlock would rather be killed than watch John go through any sort of trauma.  He remembered the bonfire night quite well- the smoke, the evil-looking flames, the slight burns on the palms of his hands.  And John, panting and disoriented on the ground, a bloody gash extending from his hairline to his temple.  It was one of the most frightening nights of his life.  After the incident, he imagined what would have happened if they hadn’t arrived in time.  He shuddered to think what he would find.  Yes, Sherlock loved John.  But did he... _ love  _ love him?  It annoyed him to put the question in so asinine a fashion, but there was no other way that it made sense.  Did he love John as a friend, or did he love him as something more?  The great ambiguity and emotional depth of this question was too much for Sherlock to handle without a cigarette, so he took two full cartons of smokes, laid a cushion out on the floor, and proceeded to use the rest of the afternoon (and much of the evening) to figure it out.  Firstly, there was John  _ as a man  _ to consider.  John was not unpleasant to look at nor be near.  He didn’t smell bad, his hair was generally clean, and his face held a certain lightness and warmth that Sherlock had come to trust and understand.  Also, he was so easily readable.  John  _ thought  _ that he hid his emotions well but Sherlock never had any problem figuring out exactly what he was thinking.  His eyes always gave him away.  So, the question stood: did Sherlock appreciate John as a man?  Yes.  Definitely.

Next- there was John  _ as a friend  _ to consider.  This was such a dumb question that Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes.  John had saved Sherlock’s life both physically and mentally in so many ways and at so many different times that it was ludicrous to think that John was anything less than a friend, let alone a  _ bad  _ friend.  How perfectly stupid that the thought should even cross Sherlock’s mind.  Yes.  John was an excellent friend.  Well, then how about John  _ as a partner _ ?  This was slightly different- Sherlock was thinking more in terms of a crime-solving buddy.  John could be remarkably slow at times, but he wasn’t an idiot.  And he had the truly amazing ability to force Sherlock into behaving.  Sherlock couldn’t count the number of times John had shot him the shut-up-you-are-being-an-insensitive-git look.  Truly, a wonderful partner who served The Work well.  Sherlock was lucky to have him.  It could be avoided no longer- the essential question, the all-important answer: What did this make John to Sherlock?  And Sherlock knew instantaneously that he wasn’t just in love, love was  _ in  _ him, clouding his brain, fogging up his thoughts, the grit in the microchip, the disadvantage finally,  _ finally  _ catching up with him.  He slumped on his cushion, distraught by this surprising turn of events.  Briefly, he imagine John running up the staircase into the flat, breathless and equally as confused, and then him taking John in his arms and embracing him and rejoicing that they had  _ finally figured it out _ .  

Alas, romantics have such fanciful imaginations.

  
No such thing occurred.  Why would it?  It was a perfectly ludicrous thing to imagine.  It was impossible.  John was married.  And it wasn’t even that John was A Heterosexual, because Sherlock had seen through that the very first time he had met him.  He had always known.  No, it was the fact that John was  _ happy _ .  It was too fucking difficult to imagine any future in which Sherlock might figure because John was finally at peace.  After years of war and loneliness and extreme loss ( _ Sherlock’s  _ own damn fault) he was actually doing well.  And in some convoluted way, this hurt.  But Sherlock refused to get to sentimental, he refused to let the Disadvantage overwhelm him completely.  Yes, he absolutely loved John with his whole being, he would jump off a building (too soon?) if John asked him to.  There was nothing to be done.  He let the feeling die in his chest as he took a steep drag from his cigarette, his fingers trembling.  Sherlock’s love for John collapsed in on itself and shrivelled into a small and withered weed, shivering piteously in the deepest corner of his mind palace.  John was happy.  And, after all, it was the one Disadvantage.  


	4. The Blue Lips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds Sherlock in the middle of an overdose. They go to the hospital together, and John gets really angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock never apologizes. But wait a minute....
> 
> Please enjoy and comment!
> 
> -pp

**** John loved autumn mornings.  He knew that he should probably hate the dreary, rainy weather, but in truth, it suited him the best. The hushed fog, the smell of headlights beaming through the mist, the taste of raindrops hovering above the sky.  They made him feel like there was something bigger.  It was on an autumn morning that everything finally spun out of control.  Ever since the deduction, John and Sherlock had been treating each other very carefully, as though the other might break if handled too roughly.  Now, whenever someone called them gay in public, or made some snide remark about how John followed Sherlock around, neither of them would respond- John would flush and look at the ground, and Sherlock’s mouth would drop into a severe frown. This behavior all came to a screeching halt on that fateful morning in November, when Mary was resting at home, and John had been called away to Sherlock’s flat. 

John mounted the first step, noting with a start that the typically shabby interior had grown even shabbier.  The wallpaper was peeling and more than one step was chipped and broken.  

He found Sherlock in the middle of the living room floor, twitching in the clutches of a severe overdose.  His lovely green eyes were clouded over with a haze of stimulants and his long white fingers drabbled up and down his neck, desperately trying to close on to something that wasn’t even there.  A heavy block of dread dropped straight into John’s throat.  “Sherlock, are you alright?” he began shaking his shoulders, trying to get him to snap out of it.  “Answer me!  What did you take?  What the hell have you been doing?”  Pushing his concern away, John went into full doctor mode, forcefully pushing him up against the couch so that he wouldn’t choke on his own vomit.  Sherlock’s mumbles crashed against John’s ears.  “Johnn...is that you….what have you done”  John slid his hands gently behind his neck, noting with horror the unmistakable blue tinge in his lips- heroin.  Running out of the living room and up the stairs he pushed aside Sherlock’s crazy science experiments and grabbed the emergency store of naloxone he kept under the bed.  “I’m coming, I’m coming, give me a second,” he said under his breath, fumbling with the automatic injector.  He sprung back down the stairs and threw himself on to the floor next to Sherlock.  Jabbing the injector unceremoniously under his skin, John slid his phone out of his pocket and dialed 999 with unsteady hands.  “Hi, yeah.  Baker Street, 221B.  Heroin overdose.  My name is John Watson, the man overdosing is Sherlock Holmes.  Come quickly.”  

This was something of a rare occurrence.  John had caught him smoking before, but never this.  He had only heard the stories from Mycroft.  Ah, yes, Mycroft.  Somehow, when the ambulance arrived and the men thundered up the steps and into their apartment, he was there as well, lower lip pulled out in a grimace.  “I am indebted to you, Dr. Watson.”  The two men watched Sherlock being lifted onto a stretcher.  Although Sherlock was quite tall (and his hair gave him an extra three inches) he looked extraordinarily small and childish when lying under the clinical white sheet.  “It’s not a problem.  Called me yesterday saying there was to be a case today, but turns out…”  Mycroft’s eyes were downcast as he scoffed “‘User.’  He always was so fantastic in his excuses.”  The EMT’s bore him down the stairs and through the door.  Mycroft and John stood silently  in the empty flat.  So much laughter, so much happiness, so much  _ pain _ had inhabited these walls.  Wordlessly, Mycroft walked away.  John sighed and followed him out.  It was to be a long evening, and an even longer night.  

“Is he going to be okay?” Mary wondered into the phone.  John turned around, looking at his friend, chest rising and falling underneath the bedclothes.  “I think so.  I got there just in time.  Jesus, he can’t keep on scaring us like this.  He has no regard for anything, Mary, he doesn’t care.  When he wakes up he won’t understand what’s happened. The fucking son of a bitch,” John laughed bitterly.  He breathed out.  He could tell Mary was just as worried as he was.  A comfortable quiet stretched between them, their concern for their good friend unvoiced yet nearly tangible.  Mary was the first to break it.  “Don’t worry about the office, I’ve already called in a replacement. Everything’s going to work out John, I know it will.  Stay there for as long as you like.  I’ll see if I can pop by tomorrow afternoon.  I love you.”  John gripped his phone harder.  Everything was sliding out of control.  “I love you too.”

He returned to his chair at Sherlock’s bedside and his heart seized.  It was something to do with Sherlock’s hair, arranged in a manner he knew Sherlock would find enormously embarrassing.  It was something to do with his lifeless hands which were normally so active and eloquent in their movement, it was something to do with all the needles pricking out of his skin.  Mycroft pushed aside the curtain and entered, looking tired and extremely pale in the dim hospital light.  “He’ll be fine, John.  It’s happened a million times.  Don’t tell him I was here.”  For the first time, John noted the wrinkles in Mycroft’s face.  After a moment of hesitation, Mycroft extended his hand.  John grasped it firmly and shook.  “I’ll stay with him.”

It took Sherlock two days to wake up.  When he did wake up, he was alone again. But there was a note.  A handwritten note, from John, on the bedside table.  Many iterations of the same line had been crossed out, leaving only this one at the very bottom of the paper-

_ I’ll be back by this evening.   _

Almost instinctively, Sherlock’s deductive powers kicked in, information flooding his mind in one overwhelming sweep.   _ Clearly written in a hurry, usually doesn’t dot his i’s like that, cheap paper, from the hospital, given to him by a nurse, but he was embarrassed to ask for it, he’s written me a note multiple times thinking I would wake up, but this is the only time that I’ve actually been awake to see it...   _ There was a sharp pain in his head, pulsating above his left ear.  He let his train of thought trail into nothingness and closed his eyes once more.  John would come back soon.  

Mary grabbed her husband and pressed him close.  She knew how big of an impact it had on him, seeing Sherlock like this.  John nestled his head on her shoulder.  “He’s really done it this time,” he said, his words muffled by Mary’s shirt. He felt her nod gently.  “It’s sad.  Sherlock is just so abysmally alone!  Maybe you gotta run him again like before our wedding.  That oughta cheer him up a bit.  He never gets to see you anymore.”  For a second, John couldn’t believe his ears- was his wife encouraging him to leave her more often?  “You’re having a baby,  _ we’re  _ having a baby! I can’t just be running off with Sherlock whenever he texts me.”  She gripped him tighter.  “Do what you need to do.  I can take care of myself.  Of course, I love it when you’re home on the weekends but watching netflix and eating ice cream isn’t so bad either.”  John felt a great swell of pride.  Mary may have had her faults but she was sensitive and loving, and John was very grateful to her for just  _ understanding _ \- not questioning, not nagging, just offering her unwavering support. “I love you, Mary.”  “I love you, John.”  The couple held onto each other tightly in the blindingly sterile hospital corridor, an unnameable darkness clutching at their hearts.  Something was coming.

John entered the room.  

Sherlock’s eyes flickered open and John relished seeing the familiar pools of jade, piercing and alert, unclouded by drugs.  “John-” “Sherlock-”  They stopped and chuckled, relieving some of the tension in the room.  “Before you say anything about how I’m an addict, know that I was tricked (a rare instance, but it does happen) someone gave me a bad batch.”  A familiar rage burnt tightly in John’s stomach.  He marched stiffly over to Sherlock’s bedside and glared at him.  Sherlock shrank back, a bit of confusion entering his expression.  “You really have no reason to be angry, John.  It was just a bad batch.”  Resisting the urge to permanently rearrange the bones in Sherlock’s (delicate, beautiful) nose, John steeled himself to have yet another conversation with Sherlock in which the consulting detective a) didn’t listen b) insulted John’s intelligence c) did deductions to be annoying.  “You cannot keep on doing this kind of thing.  Thank God I got there before Lestrade because then this would be all over the tomorrow’s tabloids, Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and consulting  _ addict _ ” he spat sourly.  “ _ User _ ,” Sherlock mumbled.  “Goddamn it, what did you say?” The room stilled.  The head of soft black curls turned haughtily in John’s direction and Sherlock let the syllables fall from his mouth like two lemon drops- “Use. er.”  

With a wild grunt of anger, John forgot everything he promised himself about keeping calm and grabbed Sherlock by the neck of his hospital gown, holding on so tight that his knuckles brushed the taught skin of his throat.  “Don’t you fucking play with me anymore Sherlock, I’m done.”  He practically shook with ferocity and a smile devoid of humor played dangerously about his lips.  His voice lowered to an urgent, enraged whisper. “What if- what  _ if  _ I hadn’t arrived in time?  Hm?  What if they found you on the floor, surrounded by your  _ drugs _ , mouth foaming,  _ dead? _ ” John’s voice broke on the last word.  Suddenly, he was very tired.  He released Sherlock’s hospital gown and let him fall back to the pillow with a decided  _ whumf.   _

“I’m...sorry.”  

Both men jerked their heads up to look at one another.  Well,  _ this  _ was certainly a new development. Even Sherlock looked a little bit surprised he had said it.  His seafoam eyes bored into John’s and he repeated the statement, with more assuredness.  

“I’m sorry. I  _ am _ .”  

Then, in a tone that broke John’s heart in two,

“Forgive me?”

“‘Course.”

 

 

The next morning, Mycroft and Mary opened the curtain to find Sherlock’s fingers inches away from John’s, their faces boyish and innocent and soft in the sun.  


	5. The Way Things Were

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John sits with Sherlock in the hospital room, Lestrade drops by and they go on a case. John mulls over his feelings for Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. I know this is slow burn BUT WE WILL GET THROUGH THIS TOGETHER!!! Please leave comments, they really do make my day! :)
> 
> -pp

It was quiet in the hospital room.  All that could be heard was the rustling of John’s newspaper and Sherlock’s fevered murmurs.  His eyes were screwed tightly shut as he muttered darkly to himself…” _ window, the mirror, perhaps through the, ah, no, couldn’t be, because of underneath the bed, what did he find?  what did he find  _ indeed _ indeed hm the- _ ” Sherlock sat straight up.  “It was the daughter.  Must have been.  She’s the only one who could have gotten into the room.”  John looked at his watch.  “Hm.  Not bad, only four minutes this time.” “Damn it!  I could do it faster if I were not confined to this jail cell.”  He struggled violently against the tightly tucked sheets before falling still once more.  “John.”  The doctor turned reluctantly from his paper.  “What?”  He made his face as pleading and pathetic as possible.  “Get me out of here, please.”  Ah yes, the  _ please  _ was a nice touch.  John chuckled and returned to his paper, taking a special kind of relish in seeing Sherlock so  _ still  _ for once in his life.  Outside, the London afternoon swirled restlessly in the streets.  John could see that Sherlock was practically leaping out of his bed he was so excited to get back to work.  A harried looking Lestrade bustled in.  “Hey.  Look at what the cat dragged in.”  “Come to mock me, Lestrade? Your wife-” the detective inspector cut him off.  “Save it, arsehole, we’ve got work to do.”  A brilliant gleam leapt into Sherlock’s eyes and John started to get up.  “Now, hang on just a minute, he’s just getting off an overdose Lestrade, he can’t go with you.”  Simultaneously they both looked at him and said the same thing: “Who made you my mother?”  A degree of the old familiarity among the three returned and John’s head and heart engaged in a violent tussle: on one hand, if he went with Sherlock on a case, they may get back a fragment of their old friendship. On the other hand, Sherlock had just  _ overdosed.   _ The image of Sherlock’s deathly blue lips flashed across John’s mind and he shook his head firmly.  “Absolutely not.”  

Lestrade scratched his head and turned to leave.  “Alright then, looks like mum is making you stay in today.” The detective inspector left, leaving Sherlock looking all forlorn and sad, like a lost puppy.  Damn it.  “Lestrade!” John called into the hallway.  The silver head of hair turned around.  “Go.”  With an air of dignity, Sherlock sprang out of his bed and changed, forgetting to do the top five buttons of his shirt.  John found himself staring a little too long at Sherlock’s bare chest.  It was just so smooth and pale. He wondered if it was cold to the touch.  He wondered if Sherlock would sigh and arch his back like he did in John’s late night musings.  The doctor shook himself out of his reverie and picked up his coat, following the two detectives out, both of them giggling like school girls.  Typical.  

He called Mary from the taxi.  “Lestrade stopped by, he wanted Sherlock on a case.”  There was a stretch of quiet on the other line.  “Goddamn it, John, you didn’t let him get out of bed, did you?” she said hurriedly.  John felt a twinge of regret.  “Er.  Well.  Um.”  Mary laughed a bit too breathily.  “That puppy dog look get you again?” she chuckled into the phone.  Sherlock and Lestrade were too busy going over the case to hear anything they were saying but John still flushed bright red.  “Um.”  Mrs. Watson told her husband she loved him and hung up.  

The old thrill of going on cases with Sherlock tingled down John’s spine and he looked fondly at his two friends.  To think that it all began with Mike Stamford, introducing them at Bart’s. To think it all began with John extending his cellphone towards Sherlock’s outstretched hand.  In their first adventure, Lestrade hadn’t remembered John’s name.  A few years later, and he was attending John’s wedding.  Never before had John felt just how much Sherlock had changed his life.  Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse, but always with John’s best interest at heart (well, except for the times that he annoyed him, that was different.)  If John had never met Sherlock, he may have never met Mary.  Now that was an astonishing thought. 

Meanwhile, Sherlock’s love for John was physically hurting him.  No longer was it just a phantom of his heart, it was a shadow over his body:  squeezing his chest tightly in its cold hands, forcing his breath out all rapid and choppy.  He knew what he felt towards John wasn’t sexual but a survival-instinct.  It extended beyond all the normal barriers of love, it reached into something far greater and deeper than he could possibly decipher.  The little black shriveled thing that Sherlock had forced so vehemently into the corner of his soul was now perking up a bit (despite his best efforts) and a green glow had entered its leaves.  They trembled and shook, threatening to bloom.   _ Keep it low, keep it burning fiercely but dimly, keep it to yourself, for now.   _

They didn’t talk about the overdose seriously until they were back in their flat.  As usual, John started the conversation.  “So.  Am I going to have to search the flat again?” It was a joke but it was also a threat.  “Don’t be absurd” he scoffed, throwing himself into his chair.  This part was always hard.  Leaving.  Sherlock hated it when John left but he tried his hardest to make it seem like he didn’t care.  “Alright, well Mary’ll be waiting then,” John said, inching uncomfortably towards the door. Awkward, stupid, shit, fuck. Sherlock took up his violin and improvised a somber little air, playing his friend out as he opened the door and shuffled down the stairs.  In his head, John could still hear the instrument’s melancholy wail in the street. He turned around and watched Sherlock’s elegant silhouette pivot sharply away from the window and move deeper into the dingy interior of the flat.  A rumble of thunder crashed in the distance and John ducked into a cab right before the rain began to fall.

His wife greeted him when he opened the door, smiling happily, the child growing within her showing through her thick sweater.  “Mary,” John sighed, going to her and pulling her close. Mary put her arms around his shoulders and steered him inside.  That night, they cuddled up and watched a movie together as the November rain splashed on the roof of their house.  John pulled a blanket up to his chin and looked around at his house, his wife, his child.  Who would have thought that all this would come from Sherlock?  Sure, in a sort of fucked up way, but still.  The fibers of her jumper tickled his nose as he buried his face in her back.  This warm, beautiful, amazing, secret-spy was his wife, and he couldn’t be happier.  For this brief moment in John’s life, all the remaining storm clouds cleared and he felt content.  

Except.  

Well.  

Here is where we run into a few problems.  

Here is where the water gets murky, where the terrain is uneven.  

No matter how hard John tried to be content, there was always that niggling sensation at the back of his mind that something was missing.  And he knew, in his heart of hearts, that it was Sherlock.  He needed him. In fact, sitting on the couch with Mary, pretending to watch the movie, that was all he could think about.  If only Sherlock was there too, sitting in the kitchen on his laptop, or reading a novel quietly in the corner.  Or stuffing mince pies into his mouth and drinking black coffee and brooding.  It was incredibly selfish of John to think this way, but he couldn’t help it.  What if, what if, what if he could have the best of both worlds- a stable marriage with Mary, the woman he loved, and Sherlock, the man he  _ needed.   _ The more he thought about the idea, the more it excited him.  The more it excited him, the more sorrowful he felt, since he knew it was next to impossible.  In what strange universe did they all live together in the same house?  How would they explain Sherlock’s presence to their child if it happened?   _ Oh, well, Scott  _ (John had planned to name the baby Scott whether it was a boy or a girl)  _ Sherlock is a very good friend of daddy’s.  No, he’s not related to you.  No, he’s not ill.  He just lives with us, alright?   _ He shuddered to imagine the conversation.  No, he was better off just being content with what he had.  An irrational flash of tenderness flared up in his heart and he decided to let the matter be.


	6. The Other Question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John kiss. Finally. And it's beautiful and it's everything they've ever hoped for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the best things I've ever written. Leave comments, go crazy. Chapter 7 will likely come out after this upcoming weekend. Thank you for sticking with it! 
> 
> -pp

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock was positively miserable although he convinced himself otherwise.  He felt like sleeping nude so he stripped off all his clothes and tossed them to the ground, falling into bed and wrapping the sheet around him so that he was all burritoed snug and close.  The fabric felt alien on his skin, and he wondered briefly if he was going insane. Sometimes Sherlock felt like he had floated out of his body and was looking at himself rather than  _ being  _ himself.  It was an odd sensation.  This was one of those times.  Everything was falling, falling, falling...everything was changing and Sherlock didn’t like it.  The sheets suddenly felt too close and he pushed them off his body, panting and staring straight up at the ceiling, feeling like a child.  His native arrogance and conceit pushed against the strange and sudden urges rising in his heart, beating against them like waves pounding on a craggy shore.  He wanted so badly for John to hold him, speak to him,  _ look  _ at him.  It had been months since their last intense case.  In a moment of weakness, he let down his guard and let all of his love for John hit him squarely on the chest.  

His phone beeped, as if on cue.  Groping blindly for the gadget on his night stand, he hoped against all hopes that it was---John.   _ Hey, you doing okay?   _ the letters glowed hot and white in his eyes. He grasped the phone in his two hands and punched back  _ Of course.   _ A little of his characteristic annoyance returned and he followed up his  _ Of course  _ with  _ Obviously.   _ A floating bubble materialized underneath the last message Sherlock sent, three dots pulsating gently.   _ Just making sure.   _ Another bubble flashed on then off, as if John was deliberating what to say.  Sherlock snorted to himself.  Even over the phone, John’s emotions were as easy to read as a street sign.  The phone went back on the nightstand and Sherlock slipped further into his bed as if afraid of the inevitable  _ bzzzztt.   _ Letting out a long, melancholy sigh, he draped his sheet around him, grabbed the phone back of the table, and went into the living room to sit in his chair.  A blush rose in his cheeks.  God, if anyone ever saw him sitting in John’s chair, wrapped in John’s plaid blanket...well, he would just die of shame.  The phone buzzed.   _ You can always call me if you need anything.  Anything at all.   _ Warmth spread through Sherlock’s chest and for the first time that whole day he felt as though everything would be okay.

John came over later that week, at Sherlock’s urgent request.  They had their hands full of an old-fashioned robbery (missing beryl coronet)  and were doing some research before visiting the crime scene.  Tea stood half drunk in their saucers as the consulting detective brooded on the couch.  An unlit cigarette dangled out of his mouth and every so often he would exchange it for a dry one.  John was sitting in his usual chair, poring over newspapers, searching for clues.  Beside him was his trusty leather notebook.  Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson was chirping away over the stove, probably baking more cookies (Sherlock had eaten two whole plates of them over the last day and a half.)  In fact, if you had walked up to 221B Baker Street on that brilliant afternoon it might have seemed like none of it had happened, and Sherlock’s death and John’s marriage was all a distant dream.  

It started as a fight.

“But I don’t understand-” John began, gesturing with his pencil.  “Oh, of course not. Why are people incapable of lending themselves to a moment, just a  _ moment _ , of thought?” Sherlock spat with biting sarcasm. The past couple of hours had wrapped his head in a fog and he felt surly and out of sorts.  “There’s no need to go on like that, I’m only trying to help.”  He turned his deep green eyes on John and nearly  _ growled.   _ “Don’t.”  In a moment, John was up on his feet and standing over Sherlock, impulsively yanking the cigarette from his lips and pinning his shoulders to the cushions.  With a petulant smirk, Sherlock refused to struggle, and instead let himself sink yet deeper into the couch.  “Stop it.  Why are you being like this?” John said angrily.  They stared at each other, John struggling to ignore the almost tangible taste of Sherlock’s breath.   _ Like toothpaste...old black coffee....and just the faintest, gentlest touch of cinnamon.   _ Then, without meaning to, they kissed.  

It was unclear who first initiated it, but once it was happening, there was no going back.  Both men were so positively stunned that all their doubts and worries faded into nothingness.  It was a soft kiss, a tentative kiss, a questioning kiss.  Sherlock put his hand on the back of John’s neck and pulled him closer.  Heat radiated off John’s skin and when Sherlock’s cold cheek brushed against his he was so surprised that he pulled away as if he had been burned.  John twined his hands in Sherlock’s hair and let himself fall lightly on top of him, relishing the feeling of that gap finally,  _ finally  _ being closed.  Briefly, John opened his eyes and almost fainted from light headedness.  He had never seen a more sensitive, and serious face.  All of the old, brusque Sherlock was there undoubtedly, but there was also a tender earnestness that ripped John’s heart to pieces, a feeling John embraced as he tightened his grip on Sherlock’s shirt.  After what felt like a year, John pulled away and they looked at each other, a vague and nameless horror worming its way into John’s heart. Sherlock’s whole body was shaking.  No one had ever touched him so intimately, no one had ever cradled his head like it was the most intelligent head in the universe.

“Oh shit. Oh  _ fuck.” _ John breathed, putting his face in his hands.  Mary. Fuck.  Sherlock was silent. “Mary cannot know. She always teased me about us, about  _ whatever  _ this is, this would destroy her.”  He paced back and forth across the room, creating a little agitated breeze.  Sherlock was still silent.  “Shit, we really messed up this time.  We really pushed the line on this one.  I cheated on my  _ wife.   _ Dear God.  What kind of man am I?  Should I tell her?  No, not before the baby.  Would we get divorced?  I  _ kissed  _ a  _ man _ .  Oh, holy fucking shit this is a disaster.” John took a strangled gulp of air and continued rambling.  “Oh my-”  Sherlock’s voice cut through the confusion.  As soon as the first word was out of his mouth, John knew what the question was.  One, single, terrifying question.  One that John had never hoped he would ask, one that Sherlock never thought he would.  But...in light of recent events…

“Do you love me?”

His gaze swung around to meet John’s and his mouth was turned in the most solemn expression that John had ever seen.  There was no trace of mockery or vanity or pride or any of the other million annoying things that Sherlock often expressed.  Just the utmost severity.  “Do you love me?” he said again, more unsure this time.  

And John knew that he couldn’t keep it up any longer.  

He strode purposefully across the room and grabbed Sherlock by the collar, forced him to stand also.  “Does this answer your question?”  With all the restrained and repressed passion of the previous years, he kissed him again, harder than before.  He locked his arms around Sherlock’s waist and leaned hard into the kiss, biting a little on his lower lip, delighting at a sort of moan issuing from Sherlock’s throat.  This kiss was not the same as before.  It was charged with awakening and understanding.  Now, they were fighting for air, so captivated with this new side of the other person that they forgot to be afraid.  When they untangled their limbs again, Sherlock only looked more puzzled.  John noted with satisfaction the dazed gleam in his eyes.  “John.  You dodged the question.”  They stood apart again, that same gap pulling them miles and miles apart.  John melted.  “Of course.”  They flowed together again and Sherlock braced himself by cupping John’s face in his hands. “I’ve always loved you.”  And in that moment John beamed with all the friendship and happiness and love that he could possibly muster, and Sherlock beamed right back, favoring John with one of his rare, dazzling smiles.  John’s face was smushed against Sherlock’s hard chest as the detective hugged his little John closely, relishing the smell of his hair.  

Just to hear him say the words, John asked him the question too.  “Do you love me?”  An expression that John had never seen before stole over Sherlock’s face and he got very grave and quiet before answering, “Yes.”  As if a bit surprised by his own bravery, he repeated the word with more force, shivering with excitement in John’s embrace.  “ _ Yes. _  John Watson,” and here he drew him back a bit to glare at him, “I. love. you.” They hugged again and laughed like it was the old days and sat down to their tea and couldn’t really concentrate on the jewel theft anymore because they were in  _ love  _ and it had been  _ years  _ and now they were both finally making it happen.  Sherlock and John ended up sitting across from each other in their respective chairs and revealing all the things that they never thought they would reveal.  “When I said I wasn’t asking you out, I was lying,” John grinned into his tea.  Sherlock nodded sagely and bit back his response  _ I know, idiot.   _ “I couldn’t believe you were willing to die for me. At the pool.  With Moriarty.  No one has ever…” Sherlock trailed off, still unused to this new version of himself that John brought out.  Not that he didn’t like it.  It felt scary and odd but it felt  _ right _ .  Luckily, John hadn’t fallen in love with the soft side of Sherlock.  No, he had fallen in love with the Virgin, the statue of impenetrable marble, the calculating green eyes, and the mess, and the murders, and the music.  No, he had fallen in love with the icy and distant Sherlock that everyone else had never bothered to understand.  Sure, there were small parts of Sherlock that weren’t  _ all  _ ice.  Sherlock was charming, Sherlock was funny, Sherlock could be heart-wrenchingly kind.  But that was nothing compared to his arrogance and brilliance and utter disregard for other people’s feelings.

Well.  Except for John.  

Obviously.

The two old friends (can we even call them that anymore?) talked long into the night.  They talked until their voices were hoarse, they talked until they both fell asleep, right where it all started- in the living room of 221B Baker Street.


	7. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sherlock liked to kiss John most after he took a shower, and his mouth tasted like mint and his hair smelled like strong, oaken shampoo. John liked to kiss Sherlock most after he did a deduction, the excitement still palpable on Sherlock’s tongue. Of course, Sherlock was always very hesitant about wanting a kiss, and for the first dozen times he would tell John soberly that he was about to be kissed, or ask John if he would liked to be kissed right about now. This eventually wore off into familiarity and sometimes Sherlock would even curl his thin frame around John’s and blush into the back of his neck."

Dust floated through the sunlight.  John was the first to stir.  He rubbed his eyes and gave a wide yawn before shaking his head. The memory of the kiss pressed itself against John’s lips and for a second he imagine he could still feel Sherlock’s against his own, so alien and cold and desperately beautiful.  A deep desire to kiss him again rose within him so he staggered over to Sherlock and crouched down to watch him sleep.  Curious.  He had never watched him sleep before.  Sherlock’s long black eyelashes fluttered almost imperceptibly.  Then he remembered.  He was fucking _married._ John leapt away from Sherlock like he was some sort of dragon, possessively guarding his hoard, about to wake up and snap at any moment.  What the _actual fuck_ was John doing, kissing a man?  A man that everyone had always said was gay?  A man that his own wife suspected of feeling things toward John?  A frustrated groan disturbed the silence.  The downy head of sleep-tossed curls trembled.  “Hello,” said Sherlock uncertainly, wincing as he stretched his body out of the crescent moon shape.  A million unspoken thoughts stretched between them.  “Christ, I’m married” John said flatly.  Sherlock pinned John down with his green gaze, a hint of wild fright in his eyes.  “You said you loved me” he reproached John.  This almost made John laugh out loud.  “Well, I do.  But we have to figure out what to do about Mary, because…” he hesitated, decided to go for it, “I still need her.  We have to be realistic.  And I love my child.”  To make the blow softer, he touched Sherlock lightly on the arm.  “I was going to name her after you.”  John made an odd snuffling noise, somewhere in between a sob and a laugh.  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” he said helplessly, falling into his chair.  They regarded each other in the same, familiar span of space across from the fireplace.  “Well, if it helps, I love you” Sherlock offered.  The honest hope in his eyes touched John deeply.

“We’ll have to tell her.  What she’ll do, or how it will go over...I don’t know.  But we have to tell her, Sherlock, you know that.”  Sherlock flinched as if he had been struck. “Yes” he said flatly.  The space between them seemed to yawn into a chasm, forever thrusting them in opposite directions, John stretching past the table in the kitchen, and Sherlock smashing through the wall and hovering out above the street.  “Well, there’s nothing we can do _right_ now,” John said with a little smile.  He crossed over to Sherlock’s chair and gave him a loving hug, the gap evaporating in a snap.  Sherlock, still feeling very _unlike_ himself, stiffened and then relaxed.  John inwardly marveled at the tautness of Sherlock’s body- every inch of it was hard and cold.   

It went better than expected. Mary was shocked and hurt and angry, as she had every right to be, but there was a bit of weariness in her remonstrations, as if a tiny part of her knew this was going to happen all along. “You’re the only person,” she said through clenched teeth as they sat tensely in the parlor, “who I was afraid of. You know that? Not any young thing off of the streets, _you_ , Sherlock. Because I saw the way he looked at you. And I saw the way he looked at me. And I thought,” her voice broke off and John looked away, unable to bear the sight of her, “that I could be satisfied with just that for the rest of my life. Hell, I married the man. But I guess he couldn’t.” John was miserable. He hated to see someone that he cared about so deeply hurt so much. He hated himself for what he had done, he hated himself for feeling what he felt. But, come to think of it, perhaps it was all for the best. After all, he and Mary hadn’t been doing especially well recently. The pregnancy had just served to highlight uglier and uglier qualities about the other. It had gotten to the point where some nights they slept in different rooms. That probably wasn’t healthy. However, John wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye to Mary. He still wanted to be able to see the baby.

“What are you going to do?” John said. Sherlock looked desperately uncomfortable although he was trying his best to hide it. Mary pressed a hand to her head and another to her pregnant belly. “Well, for starters, you can’t love us both. The love you feel for me is not the love you feel for him. And it’s not fair. Fuck, it isn’t fair to me. So I’m leaving, let’s get that out of the way. But I still love you, John, I really do. And I would never take the baby away from you.” Some of the old kindness swelled between the two. “I would never.”

It was agreed that Mary would eventually get the house. John fervently promised to be at her side throughout the pregnancy, though, and remained at their house for the remaining months in order to see their daughter safely into the world. When Scott was born (and it was a “she”) John and Mary almost seemed to be in love other again. It was their baby, and they were the parents. Their baby emerged in the world, throwing a tremendous fit and with a massive head of golden curls. She was a happy and fat little baby and John and Mary were completely enamored. John stayed a few months more in his house. Every day he woke up amazed and excited and tired out of his mind. Mary and John worked hard to put their bitterness aside and make everything alright for the baby, who didn’t seem to mind the rather odd familial configuration. For that first year, John straddled going on cases, being a doctor, and taking care of his child, always winding up sleeping next to Mary instead of Sherlock. He didn’t mind, though. He knew that everything would work itself out. It was on a sunny day in mid-July when he bid Mary a final farewell and got all of his stuff moved back to 221B.

On that first night back, John wasn’t sure how to act around Sherlock. They had kissed, yes, but they hadn’t actually _confirmed_ that they were anything more than friends. They didn’t go right back to kissing either, since John had been too spent from a sleepless couple of days to grunt more than goodnight. It was a couple of weeks, actually, before they actually started kissing again. And when it happened, it all came back to John how desperately in love he was, and how much he wanted Sherlock to love him back. They were standing over their breakfast, musing over the papers. The street was quiet. It seemed like everything had finally settled into an order. John was on amicable terms with Mary, saw (and took care of) his child very frequently, and was back with the man that he couldn’t live without. Everything was right in the world. Just like that, he made up his mind that he wanted to kiss Sherlock. They had done it thrice before. So he put his toast down, forced Sherlock to look at him, and kissed him. At first, Sherlock was a little surprised and stared straight at John in a somewhat off putting away until John kissed him harder, and he was forced to give in. Sunlight streamed through Sherlock’s black curls as John’s fist clutched at the trim on his robe, pulling him closer and closer. Sherlock had never wanted anything physical in the past but now the need to kiss John was so strong that it drove him a little mad.

Something changed after this kiss, and they began kissing more often, each still surprised and astonished after it happened, as if it was the first time. Sherlock liked to kiss John most after he took a shower, and his mouth tasted like mint and his hair smelled like strong, oaken shampoo. John liked to kiss Sherlock most after he did a deduction, the excitement still palpable on Sherlock’s tongue. Of course, Sherlock was always very hesitant about wanting a kiss, and for the first dozen times he would tell John soberly that he was about to be kissed, or ask John if he would liked to be kissed right about now. This eventually wore off into familiarity and sometimes Sherlock would even curl his thin frame around John’s and blush into the back of his neck.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you thank you to every nice person that commented and motivated me to finish this!!! I really love this story, and it's my first ever completed Johnlock fic. I appreciate every single reader. If you are looking for further reading, check out my other work "Give Me a Kiss", in which every chapter is a single kiss between two characters on the show (most are Johnlock, obviously.) 
> 
> Again, thanks, and I hope you will stick around for some other things I'm working on!!!
> 
> (and, perhaps, a fluffy epilogue!?!?!)
> 
> <3


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